


Disc Impressions

by skekMal



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, my mind goes strange places and never comes back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skekMal/pseuds/skekMal
Summary: My tiny tiny drabbles about characters from Discworld.
Kudos: 14





	1. Queen of the Elves

Sometimes... it hurts. Hurts like a burning coal on the open wound.

How my dreams always drift in the same way, towards the same entity... The mere thought that I could dream about her, hurts... But she always appears, shrouded in red, glistening, marvelous...

And ruthless. I sense that mark on her... that... scar, which hurts my senses and my soul.

When she comes in red, she is like a breath of summer, like the night dance in the spring, like a gossamer of memories.

 _And she leads me through the mists, towards the trees, towards the blooming flowers on the meadow, which I could touch with one finger, most delicately, and it would disappear in the dreams, carried by the wind_.

Sometimes she comes to me, dressed in blue. And then clouds fall down from the sky and the rich azure stings with its rays like it was torn from the gods' hands.

_And then we travel by the rainbow, towards the sun and beyond, towards the fallen starts and endless vastness, seeing the color stained by magic..._

I _want_ her to come to me once more... dressed in green. Her voice seems the dew in the cold morning, the droplets of rains slowly patting on the windowsill, the patter of hail on the glass.

_I would want to go with her to the lands that have never seen the human being, and the thick emeralds lay upon the feet, laughing pearly._

But sometimes... sometimes she comes dressed in black. And then...

... I am afraid to open my eyes, to not see, how my dreams are dispelled mercilessly in the last ray of the dying star...


	2. Enormously Huge and Powerful Dragon  and a Few Small Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mixing movies can be so... Discworld.

Your editor was present at the premiere of "Enormously Huge and Powerful Dragon and a Few Small Dwarves ". Encouraged by a nice dragon accent, a fan of swamp dragons, and stories out from deepest caverns of the brain, he went with a notebook to evaluate and describe this work from Pankracy's "Long Long" Johnson's stables.

The snapshot tells a story about the dwarven mine, which is taken by the great and extremely big and powerful dragon. The whole story is based on the fact that a few dwarven suiciders choose years later to recover this mine, in the hope that the dragon has long since died, and the treasures lay unprotected and easy to recover.

"Long Long" Johnson did not skimp on the snapshot. Everything looked like alive and it would be even better if the producer of the snapshot, along with infamous sausages seller Dibbler, didn't immediately start to sell stamps (among the protests of the postmaster, Moist von Lipwig), stuffed animals and stickers saying "Let's be eaten by a dragon!" or "Dwarf's boots are nice kindling!", and even "The Suicide Squad". The dwarves were present at the premiere and their opinions were divided. Some thought that the snapshot was done properly because no dwarf would abandon a still working deposit, some were angered by the title and end of the movie, where the dwarves are burned to dust.

Lady Sybil Ramkin, a famous marsh dragon breeder, was amazed at the power of the dragon, which drowned the mountains in fire and felled the forests - and most importantly, Ankh-Morpork. The Patrician also said a few words, but only to his secretary and the Duke Samuel Vimes. Apparently, later, "Long Long" was seen dragged to the palace.

Personally, your editor was pleased with the snapshot, less of the riots between the trolls and the dwarves at the end, when the trolls were doing foul jokes about brave miners.

Johnson promised more parts in which the dragon burns also other parts of the Disc, but given the potential imprisonment, we can wait for these snapshots for a rather long time.


	3. The Minute Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death can be alive too.

Sometimes it’s good to be alone. But the Rider doesn’t like loneliness, even if it seems that it is the other way around. The Rider looks at his grey homestead, the clock frozen in time, the faded flowers in front of the house, and he wonders. He very carefully pours the grains of his sand through his fingers. And he sees the void, even if the sand is still there, still and motionless as stone.

Emptiness is never good. He sees the void where the heart should be and tries to replace it with a substitute. A substitute for feelings, a substitute for imagination. Sometimes he succeeds, and then the Rider feels a bit of joy. He can enjoy, oh yes. Sometimes he thinks that it is a true human joy. Then, however, it comes to the sad conclusion that it is completely the opposite.

When he rides his horse, white as snow, the stars dance for him in the sky. They dance and dance until they are tired, they will not sleep in their heavenly beds, until the Rider reaches his next man and lets its sand fall to the end. But all the time he thinks about his sand, which does not pour over a millimetre. It makes him sad. It pleases him. He does not know how to pick up this strange feeling in his skull that makes him regret some people and regret himself.

His work is not popular among mankind. Everyone would never meet him, but most of them feel relieved when he stands next to them and doesn’t explain absolutely anything. They can go where their lives have always led them, and the Rider is the gate to what people call the afterlife. It is also frightening, especially when you believe in burning pots. But finally, they see and hear clearly, and for these few moments of absolute weightlessness, it is worth sacrificing the temporal shell. Which about they don’t care anymore.

Cats. Cats are good. Sometimes, he catches himself imitating love for them. In the rhythm of the non-ticking clock, cats, living cats, murmur him a lullaby to non-sleep. These cats, so soft, so unbearable, so…perfect in their conceited way of being…sometimes the Rider has the impression that they give him a piece of the life they emanate. And he sees more and more distinct grains of his sand.

Sometimes, different individuals are passing through his domain. He wants well for them. He knows what they did in their lives, do now and will do in the future. But this knowledge seems empty to him, the same emptiness that surrounds him from all sides. He doesn’t want emptiness, only life. He wants life. He wants it so much.

He scratches the cat behind his ears, the cat purrs. A horse snorts in a black-and-white stable, white snowball in a colorless field of still life. The Rider sighs.


End file.
